


Déjà Vu

by Hyliare



Series: Ready for Reddie: Release the Supercut, Andy [1]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Amputation, Canonical Character Death, Comedy, Coming Out, Emotional Eating, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Gen, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Body Horror, Scars, Stabbing, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 16:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20696372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyliare/pseuds/Hyliare
Summary: The same stage, the same poor lighting.  He’d turned his phone off—fuck that.  If it rang anyway, he was getting the fuck out of Dodge.  He was drinking from a bottle of still water and pretending it didn’t somehow taste like Maker’s Mark.  A shiver ran down his spine again.  But joke was on his anxiety, he’d already thrown up in the toilet.  He turned to a stage assistant—“Is it still called déjà vu if you know it’s happened before?”||  My take on a post-canon fix-it, with all the fixing done off-screen.  So, really, more of an exploration of Richie's character and how he gets his life back on the rails.  First half, stand-up show, second half, schmoop. With Eddie, who obviously lived (but might be a little worse for wear). Rated M for excessive swearing/brief use of F slur and canonical suicide.  There's also a bit of kissing, maybe (okay, there is). No beta, I'll fix typos in 2021.





	Déjà Vu

Richie Tozier, live on stage. Come see Trashmouth and know that he hasn’t gone _completely_ fucking bonkers. Just sort of bonkers! His manager had only approved advertisements for the first part, nice and generic. Richie shuddered and sucked in a deep breath. It was hard to not give in to the shitty déjà vu coming over him. The same stage, the same poor lighting. He’d turned his phone off—fuck that. If it rang anyway, he was getting the fuck out of Dodge. He was drinking from a bottle of still water and pretending it didn’t somehow taste like Maker’s Mark. Another shiver. But joke was on his anxiety, he’d already thrown up in the _toilet_. He turned to a stage assistant—“Is it still called déjà vu if you _know _it’s happened before?”

The kid stared at him, glancing around for a second before looking back, “…I…I don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

Richie put his water bottle on top of a speaker. Or an amp. Something black and square-ish.

“Tozier, you ready?”

“Of _course_. Born ready.”

And then he was in the spotlight.

He’d walked out to applause, at least. Some supportive _whoops_ and basically no heckling. That was a good start. It was now literally impossible for him to receive _no _applause. Still possible to be booed off stage, though. They had time.

“So.” They were rapt in front of him, hanging on the tiny word.

“Last week, I interviewed for some voice-acting work, since that’s like the big thing for comedians to get into now. Especially when their stand-up career…” Richie made a gesture with his hand on his neck, wide-eyed for a moment. Laughter bubbled up slow from the crowd, almost sympathetic. “Anyway, the casting director asked to do a video interview. Like, over the Internet somehow, because I _definitely_ know how to use the Internet for _business purposes_…” The over-exaggerated finger quotes he made with his free hand drew out a few more chuckles.

“Anyway, I was going to do this video interview, and I sat down, and got all prepared for it, and I put on a nice shirt, nice jacket, combed my hair, and like, pretended to shave…I didn’t put on pants, because they’re only gonna see me above the waist.” That earned actual guffaws—it was common, and safe. They knew what was coming. “Right? Above the waist, I look flawless. Better, even, than I look right now. Hard to believe, I know. I know. But believe it.” Self-deprecation, always a hit. Richie grinned, mostly to himself and the mic stand, as he squared his shoulders and moved into the next part of the bit.

“The guy I live with—I’ve got a roommate now, and you’re gonna hear more about him, promise—The guy I live with is freaking out about how I’m going to accidentally flash this nice casting director my cock and balls.” There’s an almost imperceptible change in the audience. They relax fully. They laugh, chuckle, sigh. This is the Richie Tozier they know and love. He laughs, too, then gets serious.

“NOTE: “ His free hand flew up, pointing one finger authoritatively at the stage lights, “I AM WEARING BOXERS.” The serious look remains, for a moment.

“So, I say to him, like, first of all, when I agreed to you moving in, there was a _very _firm, ‘no telling me to put on pants’ rule. Right? It’s my fucking house, I shouldn’t have to wear pants in my own God-damned house. Second of all, _I’m wearing boxers_.” Then he breaks into a smile as the crowd bubbles.

“But you’ve gotta understand, about Eds—I call him Eds—he’s a _risk _analyst. Which means he was quoting all these disaster statistics at me about why I need to have my _whole_ ass and grundle and penis covered with no fewer than three layers when I’m talking to my potential future boss.” Richie held up three fingers, for a nice visual aid. “Like he’s talking about electrical fires and shit. This motherfucker is telling me how likely it is that LA gets _The Big One_ while I’m doing the interview, and how likely it is that _if_ LA gets…” He paused, leaning forward and bringing the mic close,_ “The Big One_…that I’ll flash the casting director my cock and balls.” He paused for the laughs. “Miraculously, through my boxers. I’m not saying they’re button-fly, but they’re _secure_. And it’s apparently gonna happen anyway.”

“Oh, but by the way, can I ask why the fuck I’m _video _interviewing for _voice-_acting job? Sounds like discrimination. Like, interviews for orchestras and shit are done _blind_. Behind a curtain. So I’m like, where’s my curtain? And Eds is like, _that’s the third layer, dumbass_. So, he’s trying to get the shower curtain down but he’s like five-foot-nothing and he has only one arm, and I’m trying to log in to this fucking meeting software before the agreed-upon time, and between you and me, my penis is _very _excited about all this. It was like high school public speaking class, right after the kid did the speech on ancient sculpture with all the naked people and right before you do your speech on the history of radio. Anybody relate to that one? Show of hands for getting uncomfortably aroused in high school speech class? No? Anyhow, I make sure to tell this to Eds, so he can re-analyze some risks. I tell ya, it is _not _looking good. At this point, he says I’ve now got a better chance of revealing my kit and caboodle than not, and he _hopes I washed it recently_.” Several fans were howling now, among the laughs and cackles and covered mouths of polite amusement. A few more dick jokes landed with aplomb.

“But long story short, I did _not _flash my cock and balls at the casting director. So, _hah! _ But, seriously. Her loss, am I right? …No. No, it wasn’t. But it was a totally normal, boring interview, and I did some voices, and that was that. Anyway…”

The energy came down slowly but surely. Richie shifted his weight.

“Okay, okay…I know people are wondering why a super successful comedian got an adult roommate. Long story. And…I also know a lot of people are wondering about the September show. Kind of related, actually, so I guess we can get that over with. Two birds, one stone style.” The audience had murmured a little, jovially, at the first half, then quieted as Richie mentioned That Night. He couldn’t be fully truthful. No one would believe that. But the Losers Club had gotten together, those of them that could, and had managed to hash out everyone’s PR plan (some needed more than others). Richie’s was as followed:

“So, on _That Night_…I got a phone call just before I went on stage. Don’t know why I answered—usually I’ve got my phone off or silenced within like an hour of the show. The number was from Maine. Wasn’t really anyone in Maine I felt like talking to, but I answered it. And, just before I went on stage, I found out that a really good, old friend of mine…a kid whose Bar Mitzvah I attended, who I played baseball with in high school, my _best _friend…who I honestly hadn’t seen in a lot of years, ‘cause that’s what adulthood is like—I found out that he’d killed himself.”

The timeline was a lie, but the emotions weren’t. He wet his lips and scanned the audience. There were a few shocked faces. Some empathetic, sympathetic, some unimpressed.

“And that, uh…that really sucked. So, I’m really sorry, to anyone out there who’s at _this _show because they got a ‘rain check’ ticket at _that _show. But it was kind of a rough night, and it didn’t really get any better over the next few days.” Someone was clapping quietly in a way Richie imagined they thought was expressing support. He coughed over it.

“’Cause over the next few days, I got to go _back _to my _hometown! _Everyone’s _dream _when they’re fucking 40 and aren’t still living in their hometown!” He raised his arms in fake triumph. “For the first time in…God, over 20 years. Went around and looked at how things’d changed, saw some people I knew from back in high school, unearthed a _lot _of _really_ deeply repressed childhood trauma…You know how it goes.” And like a switch being flipped, the laughter was back. It was nervous laughter, but it was back.

“Heh. I, uh…I’ve never joked a lot about growing up in rural Maine. Mostly because, you know, people don’t know a lot about rural Maine—especially the people who write my jokes. Hard to make it relatable.” A pause for more laughter—unsure this time, if that was tongue-in-cheek. “But I guess growing up in a shitty little country town anywhere is probably the same. Like, broadly. Right? The little local festivals. Small family businesses. Tiny arcades in three-screen movie theaters. The unsolved murders and ever-changing roll of missing posters—My town had a lot of unsolved murders.” A lone woman cheered, and Richie scanned the crowd for her with a put-upon, bewildered expression. That earned a few more laughs.

“Some solved ones, too. Lots of dead kids. My middle school bully killed his dad. There’s some _USDA Prime _Trauma. That’s the good shit.” Then the mood of the audience started shifting toward uncomfortable, and so did the feeling in Richie’s stomach. He shrugged.

“Small towns just have that sense of _community_. How everybody knows, and _hates_, everybody else?”

He wet his lips again.

“Like, getting called a faggot out of a moving cab is one thing, but hearing it from someone whose dad owns a gun and knows where you live is something else.”

He re-arranged how the wire was falling from the mic to the stage and caught sight of his manager to his left, flailing his arms. “Oh, my manager’s upset that I said ‘faggot.’ Yeah, I know it’s a bad word. Really made me feel like shit when I was 14. Especially ‘cause the fucking guy screaming it at me couldn’t even _spell ‘_faggot.’ I swear he tried to spray-paint it on my locker once and it was like he was trying to win a reverse Spelling Bee. It was like he was trying to call me a flightless bird from a Lewis Carroll poem. Dude, relax.” Though the Lewis Carroll joke got some scattered laughs, his manager did not relax. Overall, the audience was neutral, bordering on scared. They seemed to be bracing themselves. “It’s okay.”

Richie shrugged, plastering on a big smile. “It’s okay. I am immune to Cancel Culture over this. I’m allowed to make jokes about being traumatized by anti-gay bullying because I was _actually gay_. I was then, and I am now, too. Sorry, ladies. Gentlemen, bring your mothers out of hiding. Folks of non-binary gender, I haven’t decided this part of the joke yet because I’m not sure how to keep it inoffensive.”

A pause, for raised eyebrows and a few coughs. It got at least a few giggles. “…Special thank-you to the three non-binary fans in the audience who laughed at that.”

“Anyway, if someone could get in contact with _Queer Eye for the Hopeless Gay Guy_, I’d appreciate it. My closet has a _lot_ of Hawaiian shirts in it right now.” The bracing started to fade—there was _not _going to be a(nother) mental breakdown _tonight_, thank you very much. He tossed out a few more wardrobe jokes, including how “wearing a lot of rainbow shit” was just something _everyone _did in the ‘80s—right? Right?

“Anyway, back to the story,” he said, staring at his feet for a moment. “Back to September.” Richie looked up.

“I went to rural Maine and I stayed at this little hotel with a bunch of other old, _living_ friends. Like actual friends. People who only punched me when I deserved it, you know? And we basically just got to know each other again, and reminisce about Stan the Man. And guess what? My old friends are _hot_. They’re like super hot and some of them are famous? What the fuck is that about? What happened to_ me?_” He grinned a real grin, then, or at least the shadow of one, and shook his head. “But I’m not gonna name-drop my hot, famous friends. You’ll find out soon enough, if you use your _sleuthing skills_. You can’t really go out in Hollywood with famous people without getting a picture taken of you, you know that? So, you’d think I’d wear something other than a Hawaiian shirt. It’s almost like I _want _to get noticed, eating fancy dinner with my hot, famous childhood friends.” Richie brought his hand to his mouth and posed like the Coppertone girl. That got some more comfortable chuckles.

From there, he segued into some jokes about paparazzi and sex in advertising. A few of them were from the planned set of the last show. Most weren’t. He sipped from the small glass of water that had been on the stool behind him all night.

“I said that story was gonna explain the adult roommate thing, too, didn’t I? Okay. So, it’s _possible _that the guy I live with also _sometimes_ touches my dick. I’m sure some of you saw that coming. The rest of you: Catch up with the program, because that was pretty obvious. Uh, anyway. Getting together with my childhood crush was basically the only _good _thing to happen from going back to my hometown. We re-connected, and then we had some shared emotional breakdowns. And then he moved literally _all_ the way across the country and into my condo. Now, I said before he’s a risk analyst, right? And he did _that_…What I’m saying is that if anyone knows any Chief Financial Officers looking for a handsome but _terrible_ risk analyst, talk to me after the show. Right now he’s just driving valet and he’s still making more money than me. I guess people in Hollywood like their cars more than they like healing the dark pain of existence through comedy. I dunno. Heh.”

A few jokes about nihilism that landed middlingly-well, and he was getting ready to wrap things up. Richie made a point of glancing off stage.

“I didn’t tell my manager I was gonna talk about the gay thing, or the boyfriend. He is making a really angry face back there. In fact, if anyone knows any talent managers looking for clients…you might need to talk to me after the show. Sorry, buddy! I’m gonna exit stage Other Direction, okay?” He made a show of starting off, then stopped and cradled the mic more seriously.

“…Thanks for coming out tonight, everybody. Thanks for giving me another chance. If you had fun tonight, great. That’s great. And if you didn’t…” He stepped back. “_Fuuuuuck you_. Good night!”

And then he did hustle off stage Other Direction, though he had already seen his manager stalking around the back to meet him. There was an amount of applause that Richie couldn’t decide whether to assign as “surprising” in his head—that’d be kind of insulting, right? To be surprised? He really ought to—

“Rich, what the fuck was that?”

He looked down at the short brunette, standing in front of him with crossed arms and cocked head. Yeah. _That _made a lot more sense now.

People were still applauding the empty stage.

“They seemed to like it okay.”

“What the fuck? What the _fuck_, Richard _fucking _Tozier? What the fuck?”

“Allll-right. Let’s calm down. Uh. Am I fired? Like for real? Because I know it wasn’t a _great _joke, but…”

“I haven’t decided yet. We’ll wait to see how ticket re-sales look on the Tacoma show.”

The applause was just starting to die down as the lights on the stage dimmed. Richie crossed his arms tight and his manager rolled a pair of big brown eyes.

“Richie?”

They both swung around. Another short brunette. Taller, actually, than Richie’s manager, with a wider chest and a stronger jaw. His cheek wasn’t bandaged anymore, but the scar was still pink and somewhat puckered.

“…Oh. Hey, Eds. Done with work?”

“Yeah, I finished like two hours ago.”

“Who the fuck—Who let you back here? _You’re _the boyfriend?”

Eddie took a step closer and reached out with his left arm, touching Richie gently on his. “You okay? That seemed like a lot.”

“Yeah…Kind of was. How _did _you get back here?”

“I showed security a picture of your dick. How do you think, Trashmouth? You put my name on the list.”

“Oh, right.”

“On the list? What? There wasn’t even a VIP List _for_ this show.”

“Hey.” Eddie turned from Richie to the manager and put out his hand. “Edward Kaspbrak.”

After a moment, and after an awkward stutter step with his right, the manager put out his own left hand and shook. “…Geoffrey Bucholski. What the fuck is going on?” His eyes were drifting lower than Eddie’s.

“Uh. Well. This is…the boyfriend. Eds. Eddie. I thought he was working ‘til 10 but I still put his name on the list just in case. And, uh…Surprise? Don’t be mad?”

“I’m not _mad_, I’m fucking…fucking _flabbergasted_. That was like 90% off-script, Rich! You can’t do that! You’re lucky I didn’t get them to cut your mic. God, we couldn’t have two shows in a _row_ like that.”

“Yeah! Guess we couldn’t.” Richie’s arms had relaxed, but now hiked up again, hugging his chest.

“You prick. You planned this.”

“Nice to know you think so highly of my improv skills, Go-eff. _Yeah_, we planned it. I had to write funny jokes _and _come out for the first time ever. I re-wrote that shit like a million times. The last one was called ‘GAYSHOWFINAL_FINAL_REALLYFINAL(6).’ Converted to a PDF.”

“He’s not telling a joke right now. That’s the truth. He printed it—”

“—I printed it on scented paper! Like in _Legally Blonde!_”

Geoff made a scrunched-up face. “I’m scared to ask what scent.”

“The point is, it was only off-script from _your _perspective. From _my_ perspective, I did a _great _job sticking to the script. I nailed it.”

“Richard Tozier…What am I gonna do with you?”

“Uh, keep booking me awesome shows and making sure I don’t have to sell my condo? …Please?”

“Listen. I’m…” Geoff looked pointedly between the two of them. “I’m on your side. Whatever the Hell that means. Okay? I have no problem with…_this_.” A small but passionate gesture. “But just because _I _don’t, doesn’t mean other people won’t.”

“…I know that, Geoff.”

“You know how Hollywood is, Rich. And were you serious about that interview? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Kind of…got it with…You know. Nipple..Neppy…”

“Nepotism,” Eddie supplied, before stepping back again, behind Richie’s shoulder.

“Yeah. That. I, uh…kind of know a hot-shot Hollywood writer?”

“Since _when_?”

“…Since…like 1982.”

“Rich, _please_.”

Richie shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you, Napoleon. I’m sorry? But to be honest, this went _way _better than I was expecting, and now I kinda just want to go home with my very recent gay lover and eat some ice cream or something.”

“That sounds good.”

His manager looked between them again, shoulders slumping as he tilted his head back and mouthed some choice words at the ceiling. “We _are _going to talk about this…But…you did good. Maybe.”

“Hah! Great! Awesome. Well, let’s go, Eduardo. We’ve been dismissed!”

“But we’re going to talk about this tomorrow!”

Richie had thrown his arm around Eddie and was already halfway to the exit. He flipped a quick bird and called, “Not if I can help it!” cheerfully over his shoulder.

They walked in silence until they reached the garage that held Richie’s car, which he was still insisting be kept close by, “for emergencies.”

Then, Eddie paused mid-step. “_So_…What’s with _Geoffrey_?”

And Richie pretended, gravely, to have no idea what Eddie meant.

* * *

Cuddling on the couch turned out to be slightly improved when one half of the couple was missing one half of their arms. Not that Richie had a lot to compare it to.

Eddie was pressed tightly against his left side, from shoulder to hip, wielding a fork in his remaining hand. Richie’s left arm was around his shoulders, and a half-gallon of spumoni-flavored ice cream was sitting on a kitchen towel balanced on both of their thighs. The TV was playing a low-budget Christmas movie, even though it was still October. They had both decided against anything Halloween-themed. 

Richie squirmed a bit. “We should get a dog.”

Eddie stopped mining pistachios out of the ice cream and looked up. “No?”

“Why not?”

“Richie. You’re not seriously asking that. You’re gonna be on the road, I’m gonna follow you on the road…We can’t get a fucking dog.”

“We can get a small dog. One that can go on planes without buying an extra seat. A Pomeranian.”

“Don’t even joke about that, asshole.”

“Wouldn’t it be a good way to, like, face our trauma head-on? You could carry it around in a crossbody purse, like Paris Hilton or something.”

“That’s a really dated reference now. And _no_.”

“…You’re gonna follow me on the road?”

Eddie pulled back a little, pursing his lips. “_Yes_. Of course I am. Richie…We lost 27 _years_. I’m not gonna lose another day.”

“Oh…Oh, shit, Eddie…But…I mean, I already invited your ex-wife.”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

Richie laughed so suddenly that he snorted, tightening his hold around Eddie’s shoulders.

“You sure you don’t wanna get married? You know, so you can divorce me? You seemed to really enjoy that the first time.”

“Do I want to divorce you?”

“Yeah, do you want to—”

And then Eddie was kissing him.

They very nearly lost the ice cream, but Richie was long-armed enough to safely drop it a short distance onto the floor, fork and spoon clattering along together into the melting mix of colors.

There was an insistent hand in his hair and a small man in his lap and he was 99% sure that was a tongue in his mouth and—“Richie, breathe.” “Good idea, chief.”

He opened his eyes, reached up to right his skewed glasses, and swallowed.

“So.”

“I wanna divorce you.”

“Damn, already?”

“I think I’d like it to be an option.”

“…Options are good.”

Richie awkwardly tapped where his hand had settled on Eddie’s hip, his other still near his collarbone after fixing his glasses. He settled backward against the couch. Eddie followed, and tucked his head into Richie’s neck.

Richie sniffed. “Makes sense, I guess. If you’re really gonna hang around me _every single day _from now until the inevitable heat death of the universe.”

“Yeah.”

“I won’t even make you sign a prenup.”

“How kind of you.”

“…We’re bonkers, dude.”

“Mmhm.”

“Like, we’ve been dating a _month_. And you were in the hospital for a _lot _of that.”

“I know. It’s like a fucking Sandra Bullock movie. Whirlwind fairytale romance. I _saved _you from a fucking _cosmic_ _killer clown_.”

“This is true. And I at least _tried _to save your arm. It was _really _gross, Eds. It wouldn’t have been _so _much better to just…lop the rest of it off before we carried you out. It was like the worst kind of loose tooth…”

“_Ugh_.”

“How do you think _we _felt? ‘Ugh’! And then you didn’t even get to keep it. Not even in like, a jar, or something.” His hands moved to Eddie’s back, rubbing wide circles there.

“…Were you really asking me?”

“I mean, do you want me to be honest?”

“No.”

“_Well_, then.”

“I’d marry you. If you asked for real.”

“…Oh, _fuck_ you. Why do I have to ask? You’re the one who’s fucking done it before.” Richie was talking directly into Eddie’s hair.

“Do you want me to ask?” Eddie was talking directly into his jugular.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Kind of.”

“…Richie.”

They separated, only slightly, and his hands seemed to move of their own accord, cupping dark hair, touching a scarred cheek. Eddie’s hand was on his face.

“Richie.”

Not all of the lights were on in the condo, and he was pretty suddenly wishing he had a light-controlling robot. It was dark.

“Richie, I love you.”

It was too dark.

“I love you, and…I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you. Whether you like it or not.”

“You almost…” He shuddered and sucked in a deep breath. _Déjà vu_. “You almost _did, _Eddie.”

“But I didn’t. Not yet. So. Richard Motherfucking Tozier. Will you marry me?”

The room smelled sweet from the melting ice cream, and a car alarm was blaring in the distance. It was dim, but there was enough light coming from the floor lamp in the corner that Richie could make out the stitching on Eds’ undershirt. He re-focused.

“Okay."

**Author's Note:**

> Haha, don't look at my other works on this site because you'll see how bad I am at updating anything but one-shots. But on the plus side, I now have a doctoral degree and a full-time job.


End file.
